Iznájar

The castle wall ends abruptly, giving way to thin air and a 50-metre drop. Below, the Genil valley is flooded into a jade lake that bends for 30 km between folds of olive-covered hills. No Costa del Sol bustle, no souvenir tat, just the smell of hot stone and wild oregano drifting up from the battlements. This is Iznájar, a white village balanced on its own limestone island, and the view from the top is the sort that makes British drivers pull over, swear gently, and reach for the camera.

A Hill-Top Island in an Olive Ocean

Iznájar sits 522 m above sea level, 75 km south of Córdoba and 85 km north of Málaga airport. The approach road skirts the Embalse de Iznájar – Andalucía’s largest reservoir – then corkscrews up to the old centre. Park at the Mirador del Postigo, a broad square hacked out of rock, and walk the last three minutes; the lanes are barely wider than a donkey and the council has given up pretending cars belong here.

Inside the walls the layout is medieval: stepped alleys, sudden miradors, and flowerpots wired to every available sill. Housewives lower baskets so neighbours can drop in bread or the morning paper; the bakery still chalks “hay pan caliente” on its shutter. Population hovers around 5,000, but after the school run the streets feel half that. Stray cats outnumber tourists most weeks, even in August.

What the Castle Saw

The 8th-century Castillo de Hisn-Ashar was built by the Moors to guard the frontier between Córdoba and Granada. Little remains beyond a keep, cistern and sections of rammed-earth wall, yet the platform delivers a 270-degree sweep: west to the Subbética ridges, east to the snow-dusted Sierra Nevada, south across the reservoir’s branching fjords. Swallows use the ruined tower as a launch pad; at dusk their shadows flick across the stone like old newsreel.

Next door, the Iglesia de Santiago Apóstol squats on the site of the former mosque. Its single-aisle interior is plain apart from a gilded retablo and a Christ figure whose knees have been worn shiny by centuries of petitioning fingers. The bell tolls the wrong time on purpose – a tradition meant to confuse the devil, or perhaps just the local builder who rigged the mechanism in 1789.

Freshwater Beaches and Goat-Track Hikes

British visitors arrive expecting a pueblo, then blink at the sight of pedalos bobbing below the cemetery. The Valdearenas “inland beach” is 4 km south of the village, down a lane so narrow the reeds brush both wing mirrors. There’s a tongue of coarse sand, a roped-off swim zone and a summer chiringuito serving cold Cruzcampo to sun-reddened families from Granada. Water temperature peaks at 24 °C in July – cooler than the Med but jellyfish-free and mercifully uncrowded outside Spanish school holidays.

For walking, the Subbética Natural Park starts at the dam. The Ruta de los Molinos follows a dried-out irrigation channel past eight stone watermills; some have been restored into holiday cottages, others are roofless shells where fig trees grow through the grindstones. Allow 90 minutes round trip, plus time to gawp at the ibex that appear on the skyline like beige statues. The Sendero de las Tres Fuentes climbs 250 m through olive terraces to natural springs where locals fill plastic carboys; the reward is a picnic spot shaded by gall oaks and a view back to the village that looks exactly like the tourist-board poster – only quieter.

Food the Grandmothers Still Guard

Lunch begins at 14:00 sharp. Try the patio of Mesón Abuela María on Calle San Francisco: half a roast chicken, lemon wedges, hand-cut chips and a bowl of gazpacho blanco (almond and garlic, served cold) costs €12. Ask for the plato de los montes if you’re two – a sharing plate of chorizo, black pudding, pork fillet and fried potatoes that arrives sizzling and defeats most couples. Pudding is migas – fried breadcrumbs with grapes and a square of dark chocolate, a combination that sounds wrong until the chocolate melts into the pork fat.

Vegetarians survive on salmorejo (thick tomato purée topped with egg) and cheese from the cooperative in nearby Priego. Olive oil is everywhere: green, peppery, with a throat-catching finish that makes British supermarket versions taste like candle wax. Buy a half-litre tin from the Molino de los Reyes mill on the A-333 for €6; they’ll let you taste it from plastic thimbles and pretend you can detect “notes of artichoke”.

When the Drums Start at Midnight

Holy Week processions squeeze through lanes barely two metres wide. On Maundy Thursday the silence is broken only by drumbeats and the occasional saeta – a flamenco hymn hurled from a balcony. In late April the Romería hauls the village’s patron saint down to her lakeside chapel on a flower-decked tractor trailer; the party continues with dancing in the dust and an open-air mass that finishes when the wine runs out. August brings the feria: fairground rides on the football pitch, a corrida de cintas on horseback and fireworks reflected in the reservoir at one in the morning. British visitors are welcome but not catered for; there is no printed programme, no wristband, just follow the brass band and try not to stand downwind of the horse manure.

Getting It Right

A car is non-negotiable. Public buses from Málaga involve two changes and a timetable drafted by someone who hates day-trippers. Hire at the airport – book ahead in July – and allow 65 minutes via the A-45 and CO-9200. Fill the tank in Antequera; service stations thin out after Loja. Park free at the top mirador or risk a €60 ticket for wedging the Fiat into a yellow-lined alley.

Stay in the old quarter if you want cobbles and castle views; Cortijo Rosario, a converted olive mill, has doubles from €85 B&B and a pool that catches the evening breeze. Down at the lake, Camping Playa de Iznájar rents timber cabins from €70 a night; the site gets British tourers in motorhomes who share gin-and-tonics while watching the sun sink behind the turrets.

Bring sensible shoes – the polished limestone slopes like glass after rain – and a light fleece for nights when the hill-top wind drags the temperature down ten degrees. Sunday lunch stops at 16:00; arrive earlier or survive on crisps until tapas restart at 20:30. Cash is still king: the only reliable ATM is inside the BP garage on the bypass, and it charges €1.75 unless you bank with Santander.

Last Light over the Reservoir

By six the castle shadow stretches across the rooftops. Swifts wheel overhead, the church bell tolls seven (or perhaps five – no one corrects it) and the first bars flick on their lights. From the balcony of the Mirador del Postigo you can watch the lake turn from jade to molten copper, while somewhere below a fisherman starts his outboard and putters home across water that looks, for a moment, like the Mediterranean that isn’t there. Iznájar won’t hand you flamenco tablaos or Michelin stars; it offers instead the sensation of stumbling into a living village that happens to have a beach, a castle and a surplus of silence. Drive back down the corkscrew in the dark, windows open to the smell of olives and woodsmoke, and the Costa suddenly feels overcooked.